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I clung around her neck; the vest be

neath Rustled against our slippery limbs en

twined : Often mine springing with eluded force Started aside and trembled till replaced : And when I most succeeded, as I thought, My bosom and my throat felt so com

pressed That life was almost quivering on my

lips, Yet nothing was there painful : these

are signs Of secret arts and not of human might; What arts I cannot tell; I only know My eyes grew dizzy and my strength

decay’d; I was indeed o'ercome with what

regret, And more, with what confusion, when

I reached The fold, and yielding up the sheep, she

cried, “This pays a shepherd to a conquering

maid.” She smiled, and more of pleasure than

disdain Was in her dimpled chin and liberal lip, And eyes that languished, lengthening,

just like love. She went away ; I on the wicker gate Leant, and could follow with my eyes

alone. The sheep she carried easy as a cloak; But when I heard its bleating, as I did, And saw, she hastening on, its hinder feet

(slip, Struggle, and from her snowy shoulder One shoulder its poor efforts had un veil'd,

(tears; Then all my passions mingling fell in Restless then ran I to the highest ground To watch her; she was gone ; gone down

the tide;

And the long moonbeam on the hard

wet sand Lay like a jasper column half up-rear'd." * But, Tamar! tell me, will she not

return?” “She will return, yet not before the Again is at the full: she promised this, Tho' when she promised I could not

reply." “ By all the Gods I pity thee! go on, Fear not my anger, look not on my

shame, For when a lover only hears of love He finds his folly out, and is ashamed. Away with watchful nights and lonely

days, Contempt of earth and aspect up to

heaven, With contemplation, with humility, A tatter'd cloak that pride wears when

deform’d, Away with all that hides me from my

self, Parts me from others, whispers I am

wise : From our own wisdom less is to be reapt Than from the barest folly of our friend. Tamar! thy pastures, large and rich,

afford Flowers to thy bees and herbage to thy

sheep, But, battened on too much, the poorest

croft Of thy poor neighbor yields what thine

denies." They hastend to the camp, and Gebir

there Resolved his native country to forego, And order'd from those ruins to the right They forth with raise a city. Tamar heard

told, With wonder, tho' in passing 'twas halfHis brother's love, and sigh'd upon his



ROSE AYLMER Ah what avails the sceptred race,

Ah what the form divine ! What every virtue, every grace !

Rose Aylmer, all were thine.

1 The exact dates of writing, for nearly all of Landor's poems, are unknown; and the same is true for Browning, and, on the whole, for all of the following poets. From this point on, there fore, the poenis of each author will be arranged chronologically according to the dates of publi. cation, and the dates of writing (if known) will be given only when especially important.

Rose Ayliner, whom these wakeful eyes

May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and of sighs
I consecrate to thee. 1


REGENERATION 3 We are what suns and winds and waters make us ;

[the rills The mountains are our sponsors, and Fashion and win their nursling with

their smiles. But where the land is dim from tyranny, There tiny pleasures occupy the place Of glories and of duties; as the feet Of fabled fairies when the sun goes down Trip o'er the grass where wrestlers strove by day.

(above, Then Justice, call'd the Eternal One Is more inconstant than the buoyant form That burst into existence from the froth Of ever-varying ocean: what is best Then becomes worst; what loveliest,

most deformed. The heart is hardest in the softest climes, The passions flourish, the affections die. O thou vast tablet of these awful truths, That fillest all the space between the seas, Spreading from Venice's deserted courts To the Tarentine and Hydruntine mole, What lifts thee up ? what shakes thee ? 'tis the breath

life! Of God. Awake, ye nations ! spring to Let the last work of his right hand appear Fresh with his image, Man. Thou

recreant slave That sittest afar off and helpest not, O thou degenerate Albion ! 3 with what

shame I Rose Aylmer, the daughter of Henry, fourth Baron Aylmer, was Landor's companion in his walks about Swansea (" Abertawy) in Wales. She went to India, and died there in 1800, Lan. dor speaks of her again in two poems written late in life: The Three Rursee, 1858, (see page 157); and Abertascy, 1859, the concluding lines of which almost equal in beauty this early lyric, usually considered the most beautiful of his poems :

Where is she now? Call'd far away,
By one she dared not disobey,
To those proud halls, for youth unfit,
Where princes stand and judges sit.
Where Ganges rolls his widest wave
She dropped her blossom in the grave;
Her noble name she never changed,

Nor was her nobler heart estranged. Inspired by the struggle of the Greek people for independence.

Do I survey thee, pushing forth the

sponge At thy spear's length, in mockery at the

thirst Of holy Freedom in his agony, And prompt and keen to pierce tho

wounded side! Must Italy then wholly rot away Amid her slime, before she germinate Into fresh vigor, into form again? What thunder bursts upon mine ear !

some isle Hath surely risen from the gulfs pro

found, Eager to suck the sunshine from the

breast Of beauteous Nature, and to catch the

gale From golden Hermus and Melena's brow. A greater thing than isle, than continent, Than earth itself, than ocean circling

earth, Hath risen there ; regenerate Man hath

risen. Generous oid bard of Chios! not that Jove Deprived thee in thy latter days of sight Would I complain, but that no higher

theme Than a disdainful youth, a lawless king, A pestilence, a pyre, a woke thy song, When on the Chian coast, one javelin's

throw From where thy tombstone, where thy

cradle, stood, Twice twenty self-devoted Greeks as.

sail'd The naval host of Asia, at one blow 1 Scattered it into air and Greece

was free. And ere these glories beam'd, thy day

had closed. Let all that Elis ever saw, give way, All that Olympian Jove e'er smiled

upon : The Marathonian columns never told A tale more glorious, never Salaivis, Nor, faithful in the centre of the false. Platea, nor Anthela, from whose mout Benignant Ceres wards the blessed Law's. And sees the Amphictyon dip his weary

foot In the warm streamlet of the strait be

low. Goddess! altho' thy brow was never rear'd

(sail'd Among the powers that guarded or as. For Tyranny to tread the more secure ? From gold alone is drawn the guilty wire

3" What those amongst us who are affected by A sense of national honor most lament, is, that England, whose generosity would cost her nothing and whose courage would be unexposed to fatality, stands aloof." (Landor, in the Dedica. tion of Imaginary Conversations, 1820.)

1 Alluding to the victory of Canaris over the Turkish feet. Compare the power of Victor Hugo on the same battle, in Les Orientales

[tone That Adulation trills : she mocks the Of Duty, Courage, Virtue, Piety, And under her sits Hope. O how unlike That graceful form in azure vest array'd, With brow serene, and eyes on heaven

alone In patience fixed, in fondness unob

scured! What monsters coil beneath the spread.

ing tree Of Despotism ! what wastes extend

around! What poison floats upon the distant

breeze! But who are those that cull and deal its

fruit? Creatures that shun the light and fear

the shade, Bloated and fierce, Sleep's mien and

Famine's cry. Rise up again, rise in thy dignity, Dejected Man! and scare this brood away.


Perfidious Ilion, parricidal Thebes,
Or other walls whose war-belt e'er in-

closed van's congregated crimes and vengeful

pain, Yet hast thou touched the extremes of

grief and joy ; Grief upon Enna's mead and Hell's as

cent, A solitary mother; joy beyond, Far beyond, that thy woe, in this thy

fane : The tears were human, but the bliss

divine. I, in the land of strangers, and depressed With sad and certain presage for my

own, Exult at hope's fresh dayspring, tho'

afar, . There where my youth was not unexer

cised By chiefs in willing war and faithful

song : Shades as they were, they were not

empty shades, Whose bodies haunt our world and blear

our sun, Obstruction worse than swamp and

shapeless sands. Peace, praise, eternal gladness, to the

souls That, rising from the into the

heavens, Have ransom'd first their country with

their blood ! O thou immortal Spartan ! at whose The marble table sounds beneath my

palins, Leonidas ! even thou wilt not disdain To mingle names august as these with

thine ; Nor thou, twin-star of glory, thou whose Stream'd over Corinth on the double

sea Achaian and Saronic; whom the sons Of Syracuse, when Death removed thy

light, Wept more than slavery ever made them

weep, But shed (if gratitude is sweet) sweet

tears. The hand that then pour'd ashes o'er

their heads Was loosen'd from its desperate ain

by thee. What now can press mankind into one





CHILD of a day, thou knowest not

The tears that overflow thine urn, The gushing eyes that read thy lot,

Nor, if thou knewest, couldst return! And why the wish ! the pure and blessed

Watch like thy mother o'er thy sleep. O peaceful night! O envied rest! Thou wilt not ever see her weep.






AWAY my verse ; and fear,

As men before such beauty do; On you she will not look severe,

She will not turn her eyes from you. Some happier graces could I lend

That in her memory you should live, Some little blemishes might blend,

For it would please her to forgive.

When Helen first saw wrinkles in her

face ('Twas when some fifty long had settled

there And intermarried and branched off

a wide)

She threw herself upon her couch and

wept : On this side hung her head, and over

that Listlessly she let fall the faithless brass That made the men as faithless.

But when you Found them, or fancied them, and would

not hear That they were only vestiges of smiles, Or the impression of some amorous hair Astray from cloistered curls and roseate band,

[perhaps Which had been lying there all night Upon a skin so soft, “ No, no," you said, Sure, they are coming, yes, are come,

are here: Well, and what matters it, while thou

art too !"

Pleasure! why thus desert the heart

In its spring-tide? I could have seen her, I could part,

And but have sigh'd ! O'er every youthful charm to stray,

To gaze, to touch . Pleasure! why take so much away,

Or give so much!

Mild is the parting year, and sweet

The odor of the falling spray ; Life passes on more rudely fleet,

And balmless is its closing day. I wait its close, I court its gloom,

But mourn that never must there fall Or on my breast or on my tomb

The tear that would have sooth'd it all

Past ruin'd Ilion Helen lives,

Alcestis rises from the shades; Verse calls them forth; 'tis verse that

gives Immortal youth to mortal maids.

Ianthe! you are callid to cross the sea !

A path forbidden me! Remember, while the Sun his blessing


Upon the mountain-heads, How often we have watched him laying


His brow, and dropped our own Against each other's, and how faint and


And sliding the support! What will succeed it now? Mine is


Ianthe! nor will rest But on the very thought that swells with


O bid me hope again! O give me back what Earth, what (with

out you)

Not Heaven itself can do, One of the golden days that we have

past ;

And let it be my last ! Or else the gift would be, however sweet,

Fragile and incomplete.

Soon shall Oblivion's deepening veil

Hide all the peopled hills you see, The gay, the proud, while lovers hail These many summers you and me.

1831. FIESOLAN IDYL HERE, where precipitate Spring, with

one light bound Into hot Summer's lusty arms, expires, And where go forth at morn, at eve, at

night, Soft airs that want the lute to play with

'em, And softer sighs that know not what

they want, Aside a wall, beneatlı an orange-tree, Whose tallest flowers could tell the low

lier ones Of sights in Fiesolé right up above, While I was gazing a few paces off At what they seemd to show me with

their nods, Their frequent whispers and their point

ing shoots, A gentle maid came down the garden

steps And gathered the pure treasure in her

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Yet every one her gown received from


Was fairer than the first. I thought not


But so she praised them to reward my



I heard the branches rustle, and stepped

forth To drive the ox away, or mule or goat, Such I believed it must be. How could I Let beast o'erpower them? When hath

wind or rain Borne hard upon weak plant that wanted

me, AndI (however they might bluster

round) Walked off ? 'Twere most ungrateful:

for sweet scents Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter

thoughts, And nurse and pillow the dull memory That would let drop without them her

Lest stores. They bring me tales of youth and tones

of love. And 'tis and ever was my wish and way To let all flowers live freely, and all die (Whene'er their Genius bids their souls

depart) Among their kindred in their native

place. I never pluck the rose; the violet's head Hath shaken with my breath upon its

bank And not reproached me: the ever-sacred

cup Of the pure lily bath between my hands Felt sale, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of

gold. I saw the light that made the glossy

leaves More glossy; the fair arm, the fairer

cheek Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit; I saw the foot that, altho' half-erect From its gray slipper, could not lift her

I said, “You find the largest."

This indeed," Cried she, “ is large and sweet." She

held one forth, Whether for me to look at or to take She knew not, nor did I ; but taking it Would best have solved (and this she

felt) her doubt. I dared not touch it; for it seemed a

part Of her own self ; fresh, full, the most

mature Of blossoms, yet a blossom ; with a touch To fall, and yet unfallen. She drew back The boon she tender'd, and then, finding

not The ribbon at her waist to fix it in, Dropped it, as loth to drop it, on the rest.




Lo! where the four mimosas blend their

shade In calm repose at last is Landor laid, For ere he slept he saw them planted

here By her his soul had ever held most dear, And he had lived enough when he had dried her tear,




My briar that smelledst sweet
When gentle spring's first heat

Ran through thy quiet veins,-
Thon that wouldst injure none,

But woulust be left alone,
Alone thou leavest me, and nought of

thine remains.

To what she wanted : I held down a

branch And gather'd her some blossoms; since

their hour Was come, and bees had wounded them,

and flies Of harder wing were working their way

tbro' And scattering them in fragments unrler

foot. So crisp were some, they rattled un

evolved, Others, ere broken off, fell into shells, For such appear the petals when de

tached Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow,

[su : And like snow not seen thro', by eye or

What! hath no poet's lyre
O'er thee, sweet-breathing briar,

Hlung fondly, ill or well ?
And yet metbinks with thee

A poet's sympathy,
Whether in weal or woe, in life or death,

might dwell.
Hard usage both must bear,
Few hands your youth will rear,

Few bosoms cherish you ;
Your tender prime must bleed

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